just a taste
by Kaz1167
Summary: Basorexia: an overwhelming desire to kiss.


Haru's supposed to be focused on unpacking his kitchen when the door to his apartment swings open and he catches a glimpse of sandy hair and green eyes, just visible over the too-large box that's clearly meant to be moved by two people.

"That's the last box," Makoto supplies, the words ending with a high, breathy sigh of relief when he sets down the box in the living room and places his hands on the small of his back, stretching and twisting from side to side in fluid motions. A little voice in Haru's head wonders if the reason Makoto's able to do all this moving and lifting without much strain has anything to do with the perfectly rippling muscles composing his back (the aesthetics of which even put some of the pro-backstroke swimmers he's recently met to shame), but that and the messy emotions tied up in that thought are _really _not what he needs to be pondering when there's a perfectly good frying pan in his hand that needs to go on the uppermost shelf.

A shelf, he realizes as he's standing on tip-toe and can feel the hem of his shirt riding up over his skin, he can't quite reach. He hears a breathy laugh emanate from somewhere behind him and glances in its general direction, glare in place. The laughing stops, but Haru can sense the smile on Makoto's face, even if he can't see him at the moment.

"Need some help, Haru-chan?" (It's one of those big smiles, where the corners of Makoto's eyes crinkle and his mouth is wide and he practically radiates sunshine, Haru just _knows it.) _

"I'm fine." Haru internally cringes at the petulant bite in his words and curses too tall best friends for being too observant and too helpful and—

_Far too close_, his mind supplies with aggressively loud internal alarms, when he feels a hand on his shoulder, gently encouraging him to stop reaching toward the shelf and to settle on his feet, and fingers brushing over his own to grasp the pan's handle. He vaguely makes out the scent of the deodorant Makoto uses, one he's come to recognize distinctly as _Makoto, _one he particularly likes, after years of borrowing clothing and sharing space. The press of Makoto against him sends a jolt of something tingling through his arm, his chest, before grounding itself low in Haru's stomach and inciting an ache that makes his heart beat fast and his mouth dry. He turns his head just to see that, yes, his friend's face is dangerously, enticingly, close to his own, and he can make out the slight sheen of sweat on Makoto's brow and neck, the way it glistens on his tanned skin.

He should not be this short of breath, should not want to fit his mouth right at the crook of Makoto's neck or place his lips over the slightly chapped lips that smile so warmly at him, but _he wants to _ , desire practically pulsing under his skin, sending a flush that burns to his cheeks, telling his tongue to wet his own lips because he doesn't want them to be dry when he kisses Makoto for the first time, because he's going to, _he has to _—

"Haru?" His name sounds so soft when it falls from Makoto's lips. He likes the way his name makes Makoto's mouth form spaces he wants to fill with his own tongue, his breath, and he watches Makoto's lips say his name again, before he finally realizes Makoto's _saying his name _ and - he's been caught. His eyes flick up from the lips he's been fixating on to curious green, panic replacing want when he realizes how desperate he probably looks when he's been so careful not to give himself away in the past. He feels like he's just belly-flopped into a pool, an unpleasant sharpness smacking against his skin, until the hand at his shoulder slides slowly down over his back before hesitantly settling at his waist, and Haru realizes the curiosity in Makoto's gaze has shifted to something else, something Haru wants to see more of, and frequently, if he can. Makoto tips his head to the left and he closes his eyes, shielding Haru's new favorite shade of green from his gaze.

Makoto tastes sweet, a little like the honeydew popsicles they'd tried earlier, and one kiss turns into ten, which turns into twenty, until he stops counting because it's becoming harder to tell when one starts and the other ends, and Makoto's calloused fingertips are sliding over the sliver of exposed skin at his hips. He realizes that Makoto's holding him with both hands now, and he must have put the frying pan away while Haru was semi-contemplating what the sweat on his skin would taste like, and, oh —

Right. He should be unpacking. Focusing on his kitchen. Pots and pans and what not.

But, exploring his best friend's mouth and reveling in how good it feels to be kissing Makoto, to be kissed by Makoto, seems like a good enough reason for a mid-afternoon break. He thinks Makoto – if his mouth wasn't otherwise preoccupied, littering little sucking kisses on Haru's neck – would agree.


End file.
